


Never Look Back

by ProbablyBeatrice



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (He's FINE I promise), Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri has the brain cell, Eventual Romance, Family Dynamics, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier | Dandelion Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Angst, M/M, Monster of the Week, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Injury, and a lot of it honestly, if that’s even a thing, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22775152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProbablyBeatrice/pseuds/ProbablyBeatrice
Summary: Jaskier takes a bet that he can rid a local village of their monster, and bites off a bit more than he can chew. A little while later, Geralt and Ciri make their way towards the same area to defeat the very same beast.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 99





	1. A Bard and a Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive shoutout to Failing_Physics who got me into this show and requires only Witcher fanfics for sustenance. This one's for you!  
> Also, I now know entirely too much about folkloric monsters for my own good. Nightmares aplenty tonight!  
> Anyway, this started off as a character study but then I had some ideas for Drama and Development (the real DnD) so I guess that it's a chaptered work now.
> 
> Words: 1,382

The first few days, it was a dull ache; as though there was a wound in his chest that hadn’t been treated properly, left to fester and decay. It didn’t ‘hurt’, per se, but it was a constant nag, and a stark reminder of what was taken away from him.

Jaskier hated days like these, even as they began to pass. All of his songs, even the most cheerful ones, came out in a dull, melancholic voice as he made his steady way along the beaten paths. He could barely make it through ‘Toss a Coin to your Witcher’ without his voice faltering slightly - whenever that happened, he always switched to a quick, arpeggiated tune, just to check that his voice was definitely still there, working correctly. Almost as if to check that Geralt hadn’t taken that, too, when they had parted ways.

In old songs and new, whenever something sad happened, it rained; an isolated lover would announce their sorrows to a raging storm, or a moving death of a hero would occur beneath a grey, desolate sky. As if to spite him, the weather remained stoically decent. It was hard to wallow in self-pity when the sun was so determinedly beaming down.

And so he began to feel angry. In an odd way, this was both better and worse; it gave him something to do, being angry. But the problem was that he could never bring himself to be angry at Geralt for long before the dull ache came back, and the songs that had been so passionately heartbroken now sounded melancholy again.

Some days, it was possible to ignore it. To just pretend that nothing ever happened; it was the days when he was on the road that were the worst, really. There was too little to occupy him, too much time to spend wiling away the hours with memories and old songs. So he stopped off where he could - whether it was in larger cities or villages without even an inn, just to spend his time doing something, anything.

It was at one of these small villages that he heard tell of a Witcher. He was sitting by the bar - barely large enough for one person, which was fine, given that the hamlet had a grand total of thirty people - and chatting easily with the friendly tenants when he heard whispers. At first, for a single moment, he wondered if it was Geralt that they spoke of. But the conversation turned sour quickly, and no one who had come across Geralt since Jaskier first began singing songs about him could refute the fact that, for all of his flaws, he got whatever job that he took done.

“Sent ‘im on, I did,” a woman muttered to one of her friends. “Told ‘im where te find the beast an’ it jus’...”

Jaskier blanched slightly as he summarised what must have happened next. He was not a fool - he knew that being a Witcher was a dangerous job, which was why they made the best subjects for songs - but it was odd to think that even someone as powerful as that could be killed one day. From travelling with Geralt, he’d developed a naive sort of notion that, no matter how terrible things got, a Witcher would always survive somehow. To hear it so blatantly disproved was jarring.

The conversation hushed as he began absentmindedly playing ‘Toss a Coin to your Witcher’; he didn’t even notice himself doing it, really. Muscle memory.

“You’re ‘is bard, ent ye?” the woman remarked, almost reverently. Jaskier paused - there it was, the ache was back again. “I’m no one’s bard,” he replied bluntly. “But I can help you.” It was stupid, and he knew it. He didn’t know the first thing about fighting, or monsters, or Witchers. But some odd part of him felt a need to do it - to prove himself, without Geralt. He could do it, he was sure. This was his moment to shine alone, without Geralt standing behind him and intimidating people into respect.

And he could do it alone, he was sure of it. As difficult as it may be, he had been alone before; okay, he hadn’t previously been alone and actively volunteering to fight monsters, but he wasn’t as helpless as he looked. If it came down to it, he was certain that he could hold his own in a fight. Against a human, at least. He just had to show them.

Raucous laughter erupted around the tavern, and a short, stocky man clapped Jaskier on the back with enough force to send him stumbling forwards. This only encouraged the amusement, and he began to feel rather small and rather alone, covering it up with a broad grin as he turned to the group.

“What, you think I can’t do it?” he teased, leaning back against the bar. “I travelled with Geralt of Rivia until-” he paused, searching for a convincing lie before deciding that the best option here was simply to twist the truth, “-until we parted ways; him to his daring deeds and me to my,” he plucked a few lute strings, casting a warm grin around, “music. Is it not time for me to have a few adventures of my own? In fact, I shall bet you twenty marks right now that I can defeat whatever your little, uh, pest is within the week.” The laughter stopped, as though the tavern had finally realised that he was serious about this. Too late to duck out now.

“On your ‘ead be it, bard,” the man from earlier muttered, passing Jaskier a rusty, aged longsword. This time, no one laughed when Jaskier’s arms bent under its weight. It had become very apparent to the patrons of the inn that they were sending a man who appeared as though he had never worked a day’s hard labour in his life, with hands too soft to have held a sword in combat and clothes too fine to fit in amongst the village that he was currently in, to his death.

“Right, then,” Jaskier said in an overly-cheerful fashion, almost as if he was trying to assure himself that this was all going to be absolutely fine in the end. “I’ll, uh, grab my stuff and then I’ll be off.” It had hit him that he had absolutely no idea what the monster was, or how to kill it, or how likely it was to kill him. Still, he decided, there was no point in going back on his word now. The patrons of the tavern turned back to their drinks and chatter, as though attempting to block out the fact that they were sitting in the room with a dead man walking; Jaskier, not wanting to dampen the mood, made to exit to place when he became aware of a short, feral-looking woman standing at his side.

“I’m gonna give ye my dagger,” she told him earnestly, “in exchange for a song. ‘Bout the Witcher; I always wanted te be a Witcher, but they didn’t let me. Not sure I’d’ve wanted to, but…”

Jaskier paused. A song for a dagger seemed an easy enough exchange, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he was ready to start performing the songs that he wrote about Geralt again. But the woman’s earnest face and the promise of the extra protection of the small dagger had swayed him, and he paused for a second as he considered what to play. He settled on the well-known ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’, strumming along and becoming increasingly aware of the inn’s attention being focused on him. Upon finishing the song, he considered the room for a second. No one clapped - rude, but fair. It was a show of respect, he supposed, in their own, odd way. To allow him to sing one last time before he went off on what was becoming increasingly apparent to be a deadly and dangerous quest.

“When I survive,” he told them, trying to sound confident - it had to be ‘when’, because ‘if’ was too flimsy, too accepting of his impending doom, “I’ll write a new song. About this.”

So saying, he started out into the setting sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, Geralt and Ciri appear next chapter, I didn't just tag them for no reason.  
> If you enjoyed, please toss a kudos/comment to your author! And sorry for inflicting my newest obsession upon you.


	2. The Witcher and the Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after Jaskier sets out on his 'quest', Geralt and Ciri arrive in the very same place, where the Witcher must not only deal with the loss of his friend, but an annoyingly curious child and bad-tempered violence from those who he's trying to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, lazing about and playing shoddy guitar riffs on this, the last day of the holidays: hm, I'm sure that there was something I was meant to be doing...  
> Me:  
> Me: SHIT
> 
> Fun fact: I wrote this in English Language class. Consequently, I'm terribly sorry if it's inconsistent/rambling/etc. Still, whatever gets me an 'A', eh?
> 
> Words: 1,453

Geralt had been travelling for as long as he could remember. Never a moment still, never a second to think of anything but the journey; for Witchers don’t have a destination any more than they have emotions. It would have been a lonely life, if he knew what loneliness felt like.

He passed glorious citadels, run-down villages and abandoned ruins and thought nothing of them. Passing moments on the way to the next place, then the next place, then the next place. His heart was lead and his mind was sharply focused, and more keenly than ever he resolved to suppress his feelings. Passing moments whilst he travelled alone, he reminded himself.

Even short moments in inns and cities were just that - short moments. So he didn’t think anything more of this particular hamlet when he arrived. One inn, one market, one stable. One goal; he had made his way here hearing of a beast that needed killing. It was just what he did.

He regretted having to bring the child along, though. He had no doubt that she could handle herself - she’d survived two weeks being hunted by Nilfgaard, for fuck’s sake - but he still stood by what he had said to Yen, what felt so long ago. This was no sort of life for a child, especially one brought up to be royalty, no matter how strong or powerful that child was.

The village was minuscule and unnervingly quiet - where was the hubbub that accompanied every human civilisation? The buildings were strong, solid wood, well-maintained and lovingly cared for, but there wasn’t a person in sight. He reached for the first of his swords - the steel one - and leapt off his horse, piercing golden gaze raking over the desolate settlement. It was so far out that it would take days for any news to reach anywhere from here. Was he too late? No, he couldn’t be. He refused to be. Leaping down from Roach, he slipped down a street too narrow to navigate on anything but foot, scanning the perimeter. It didn’t seem as safe as he would have hoped. “Stay on the damn horse,” he ordered Ciri, who glared but said nothing; not that she was the most talkative travelling companion. Sometimes, he grew nostalgic for Jaskier’s cheerful, chattering companionship, just to pass the time.

Abruptly, there was a clash of steel on steel, and he found himself deflecting the dagger blade of a harrowed-looking woman. Drawing her hand back, she thrust the weapon at him again, only for him to swiftly knock it out of her hand, rendering her unarmed. Cautiously, he stowed his sword away in his sheath. She was just a human; angry and alone, but still a human.

She visibly relaxed, but still appeared apprehensive. This, of course, was unsurprising - Witchers often tended to frighten others. It was likely something to do with the lack of human emotion and impressive swordsmanship, as was the fact that he simply looked nightmarish. His hair was just slightly too white, the colour of a skull, or a blizzard in the winter. His eyes were just too bright, a piercing, unnatural and unnerving shade of amber. If you had been to take his pulse then and there, it would have become apparent that it was significantly slower than an average human’s. Even without his black ‘uniform’ of sorts, and silver amulet, he was markedly distinct, even if, at first, it was difficult to identify an exact reason for the daunting feeling that he instilled into those who saw him.

The woman spoke first, taking a few furtive steps back. “I know you,” she told him, shakily teaching around for the dagger with her foot.

He didn’t deign to answer, giving a thoughtful “Hmm” as he stepped away, prepared to continue looking for the beast, or evidence of it.

“He sang ‘bout you, Witcher,” she said fiercely, and he paused, because there was only one person that she could mean when she said such a thing. “Your poet friend,” she continued. “He came across us, too. Said ‘e’d learnt some stuff from you, said ‘e could help us. ‘Course, we all knew he were stupid, but he went off anyway, who knows why. He’s dead now, I bet, and soon we will be, too.” She stared defiantly up at him, as though challenging him to correct her. He didn’t bother; few humans could ever hope to shape up to fight a beast, and a bard, whose talents lay in music and merriment, would have no chance. Still, it stung sharply to know that, had he been here earlier, he could have prevented another meaningless death.

No, not a meaningless death. The death of a friend.

“Look,” the woman muttered sullenly, almost as a reluctant afterthought; it sounded less like she was willingly volunteering the information, and more like she was afraid that he would force it out of her at sword-point if she didn’t offer it up, “he went left outta town towards the mountains, on foot. You’ve got a horse, ain’t ye? If there’s a chance he’s still alive…”

It was a remarkably small chance, and an extraordinarily large ‘if’. Life, however, was built on conditionals like these, and if there was even the slightest possibility that he could save a life today, he would take it.

“After all,” the woman remarked, crossing her arms almost defensively as she picked her next, venomous words like a snake choosing its next kill, “who better te kill a monster than another monster?”

He froze at those words; for all of Jaskier’s songs, the lore and legend around Witchers like him remained murky and dark, and people often chose to ignore the good deeds in favour of their old grudges against the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’, all these years later. But he couldn’t, in all good conscience, fault her for her fear. They were both alone, emotionally; possibly even literally for her. He was just doing a better job of it.

“The left, you said?” he asked, making his way back towards the narrow alleyway that he had come through. She gave him a curt nod, and he hopped back on to Roach, surveying the area once again.

“Where are we going?” Ciri asked curiously, looking over at the woman as they rode past her. “Who was it that she was talking about - a bard? What’s wrong here?”

Geralt heaved a heavy sigh, turning towards his charge. She gazed up at him with fierce, demanding emerald eyes, and he turned away uncomfortably. This, he decided, was not what he had expected when he invoked the Law of Surprise. If he was being truthful, though, he wasn’t sure what it was that he had expected with that; some decent food to take on his travels, maybe, or some expensive armour that only royals could afford. Not a child to look after, and drag from dangerous scenario to dangerous scenario. “Why is it that the only time you ever speak to me is when you want to ask questions?”

“Because otherwise you never tell me anything,” she replied simply, fiddling with the hem of her cloak as she turned away almost petulantly. Geralt restrained another sigh, reminding himself that he was bound to this child by destiny and couldn’t very well drop her off in a random village; especially given the current political climate. No, she was certainly safer with him, despite the near-death situations that would inevitably pursue them.

“What am I supposed to tell you?” he asked in a measured tone, waiting for her response. Whatever question she asked, he was prepared to shut it down; he was the child’s protector, not her confidant. As much as he cared about her well-fare, it wasn’t his obligation to explain every single detail about the world that she had found herself thrust into.

“About this bard that you want to save, for one. And why I’m special enough that people want to kill me. And who you even really are, and what you do,” she replied. “I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to protect myself from things that I know nothing about! I have a right to know, yes?”

Geralt paused, considering this. Ciri had certainly proved herself to be stronger than it would be expected of a princess, even the granddaughter of Queen Calanthe. Reluctantly, he would admit that she deserved to know more about the set of circumstances that they had all ended up in; if only to ensure her safety. “I tell you what,” he decided, “if we manage to get the bard out of this mess, I’ll let him sing it to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: the Netflix show is the only piece of Witcher media that I've ever seen/played/read/whatever, so I basically just completely made up the dynamic that Ciri and Geralt have here with absolutely no knowledge of anything else. Sorry if it's trash, I just really enjoy the idea of Geralt having to deal with this annoyingly curious, cunning child.
> 
> Once again, if you enjoyed then please leave kudos/a comment! They really do keep me going.
> 
> Next Update: 01/03/2020


	3. Heather and Hauntings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes an escape attempt, and Geralt and Ciri approach the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This alliteration is getting difficult! So enjoy a title that refers to One Line that I wrote about heather in this entire chapter (half of which is shoddy exposition about my made up monster of the week).

Jaskier couldn’t be sure just how much time he’d spent trapped in this cave, but he would hazard a guess at ‘longer than he would ever have wanted’. It seemed, he considered, that every place that he had ever been to had some variation of a local monster site, and unfortunately he had overestimated his ability to take on this one, and now he had run into a massive problem.

The problem was, of course, that he was trapped; cut off from the rest of the world and no closer to reconciliation with Geralt, or a decent meal and bed for the night. He sighed dramatically, staring around the cave and trying to think of ways to get out of the ropes that his hands and feet had been bound in since he was captured. Typical - he couldn’t even play his fucking lute to pass the time.

He hummed a cheerful tune, trying to take his mind off the predicament that he found himself in. If he just focused hard enough, he was sure that he could ignore the hunger, the thirst, the rope-burns on his wrists and ankles, the loneliness. The loneliness, of course, was the worst. It would be better, he thought, to be in this situation if he had some sort of knowledge or certainty that someone would be looking for him. In absence of this, however, his spirits had hit new lows. Footsteps approached daily, cold, rough hands gave him the bare minimum of food and water, but they didn’t make any move to untie him, and the face was always obscured by shadows. He couldn’t say that he liked whoever it was, but at least they protected him from the monsters that lurked around. He had long since given up on interrogating whoever - or, more frighteningly, whatever - was keeping him here in earnest, instead offering up the odd teasing question whenever it arrived, then stole away again.

“I don’t suppose that you fancy untying me, do you?” he had joked today, almost wincing at how rough and hoarse his voice sounded. No answer. “No? Ah. Well, can’t win them all.”

He fancied that he heard a sigh there, at this special kind of annoying that he kept in reserve for such situations, but he couldn’t be too sure.

“How long have I been here any- eurgh!” The sentence was cut off when he felt, not for the first time in his captured life, a clammy hand grab his leg. Dragging himself away as well as he could whilst tied up, he peered into the darkness as he always did when this happened, trying to identify the creature that had attached itself to him. His heart began beating faster in his chest as he attempted to calm himself, humming louder than before and focusing very decidedly on that rather than the fact that something else had just grabbed his shoulder. “Oh-” he reached around for a word in his mind that would adequately describe his feelings, helpfully arriving at “-fuck.”

He heard a wheezing breath behind him, and tensed up his shoulders as the hand on them clamped down harder. Breathing: in, out. Focus: on the song that he was humming. Definitely not on the creatures around him, or whatever was keeping him alive for some reason, or the fact that no one was coming to get him out and oh, god, he had no idea how to untie ropes and maybe he should have learnt that at some point whilst he was travelling with Geralt.

Something about letting his thoughts run off like this always inevitably ended up with Geralt. And something about thinking about Geralt always calmed him down, after he’d felt a bit of righteous anger over their parting. Oddly enough, this prompted the creatures grabbing at him to move off for a while, leaving him to calm down and catch his breath. Day in, day out; as much as he could tell what time passed, anyway. He gave the one on his leg a harsh kick, and felt a sense of satisfaction when he heard a pained hiss.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself, trying to move himself along to where he vaguely thought that there would be an exit; whenever he heard footsteps approaching, it was always from there. He soon discovered, however, that moving towards an indeterminate point in a darkened cave with his working limbs tied together with a rope that felt a lot stronger than it should be, by right. Was the rope strong, or was he weak? A combination of both, he decided, inexplicably tripping over and hitting the floor, hard. He froze as he heard something scamper behind him, taking deep breaths. All that he needed to do was stay very, very still. His eyes were wide with fear and, as much as he tried to close them, to block out his reality, he found that he simply couldn’t. He was paralysed, barely able to manage more than a small, strangled sob when his terrified eyes met cold, golden ones, and the hands grabbed him again.

✿

The journey towards the mountains had been unusually quiet; no near-death experiences, no chatter and no questions about things that he didn’t want to think about, let alone answer out loud. The only sound was the constant, steady pace of Roach along the road.

Every once in a while, whilst checking that Ciri was still decidedly there, and hadn’t fallen off Roach or disappeared somewhere, he felt eyes on him in the rustling, purple heather. Whenever he chanced a glance towards where he thought they would be, however, he invariably found that his own gaze met with… nothing. He narrowed his eyes and sped up Roach into a more lively trot, briskly making his way alone the wild path towards the mountains.

With Ciri silent, he was left alone with his thoughts; the time on the road was proving to give him ample time to consider everything that he had tried to block out. It had been slightly less than a year since Yennefer had parted with him, and he had parted with Jaskier, on the mountains, but it felt like much longer. Without anything to occupy his mind, his thoughts spun back to his cruel words and jealous possessiveness, both to Yennefer and Jaskier. Even if he truly believed in destiny - though he had to admit, the whole concept had become increasingly more compelling since the Child Surprise had somehow, incredibly, been through trials that should have killed her only to end up right where he was - he wouldn’t have been able to blame it for his isolation. It was his words, his actions, that had caused this, not some abstract hand of fate. The sooner that he accepted that and moved on, the better.

The worst part was, of course, that he found it very difficult to accept it. Geralt didn’t do well with failure, and he saw this as simply another absolute one to add to his list, without nuance or analysis. As they got closer to the mountains, these thoughts began to grow worse and worse; almost every night of the five that they had now spent travelling there, he had the same nightmare.

It began with Blaviken. So many years, and he still couldn’t get that fucking place out of his head. He pushed it to the back of his mind when he was awake - no need to worry about dreams, usually, as he simply didn’t have them - but in these mountain-induced nightmares he wandered through the streets that he had barely seen more than a few times. Always it began with Blaviken, and Renfri. But the way it ended varied, he discovered. If he slept in the purple heather, Renfri became Jaskier, cursing his name and ultimately dying as she did. If he slept on the road, Yennefer ended up being there, a silent sentinel observing his failure with disappointment and anger. On the one occasion that he tried to sleep on Roach’s back, he killed them all - Yennefer and Jaskier and Renfri and the bystanders and Gods-damned Stregobor - and then set off on his way, feeling nothing, as a Witcher should. After that one, he had resolved not to sleep at all until he had finished his mission. As they set up for the night, now no more than a mile or so away from the foot of the mountains, he felt Ciri’s curious eyes on him as he neglected to set up his own bed roll.

“I want to keep an eye out for anyone coming down the mountains,” he told her; a half-truth to avoid burdening her with his problems, not only to prevent possible worry, but also to deter any more questions. He wondered if she had dreams similar to his, and if they changed depending on where she slept; like him, she looked as though her slumber was restless and plagued with nightmares, though he couldn’t bring himself to ask. They both had their secrets, and she was as entitled to hers as he was to his. It seemed to be a malevolence from the mountains was afflicting both of them. This could, he realised, be down to the thing that they were trying to find. He quickly did a mental count of monsters that he knew of: Blyd could certainly induce the sort of disorientation that he was feeling whenever he woke up from one of those nightmares, but it was unlikely that they were able to create such fear-filled dreams alone; whilst Tugarth could cause nightmares, they didn’t vary from place to place; Dvanka were the only creatures that managed to fit all of the criteria, but he had always hoped that he wouldn’t come up against one of them, least of all with an average human. Casting a glance towards the mountains, he felt a sense of fear even stronger than the Dvanka had instilled in him with nightmares. If Jaskier was, indeed, in those mountains, he would likely have come across - or worse, been captured by - the Dvanka.

Geralt had never seen what Dvanka could do to people, but he had heard from snatches of folklore that few humans lived to tell the tale, forced to relive their fears and worst memories until the Dvanka, feeding on such things, had had their fill. Few survived past a month, and the ones that did usually ended up either so worn out, spending their willpower on avoiding death, that they could barely stand or move to escape, or they lashed out fiercely, mistrustful and still afraid as they had been in the Dvanka’s clutches. He forced himself to avoid dwelling on which one of the two Jaskier would end up as, if he had survived at all. Shaking his head, as though to rid his brain of such thoughts, he glanced over at Ciri. She was asleep and he was alone, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! If I'm honest, I spent most of my week working on my application for a job and obsessively checking my sixth form application - good news on both of those fronts, as I've been shortlisted for the job and I have an interview for the sixth form!  
> If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment or a kudos, as they really make my day!  
> Next update: 08/03/2020


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